


Not for a year

by counteragent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, M/M, Non-con implied by possession, Possession, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/pseuds/counteragent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven’t, not for a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not for a year

“So, uh, wanna catch a movie tonight? Maybe one we’ve seen before?” 

Sam’s voice was quiet, and he didn’t look at Dean. Dean went perfectly still. The barely-audible hum of the bunker’s machinery was as loud as a jet engine in the sudden silence splitting the library.

They haven’t, not for a year. 

Not since things went sour over Benny. _More sour_ , anyway, they were already pretty bad by that point; Sam had replaced Dean with a girl and a dog and Dean was nostalgic for monster hell.

That night Sam had caught Benny with his hand on Dean’s neck. Benny had been leaving; a second later and Sam would have missed it. It wasn’t much of a goodbye, really, not the quick fuck Dean had half hoped for, but it was enough. Enough for Sam to stand sentinel while Benny drove away, bristling like a guard dog. Enough for Sam to crowd Dean against the back of the door of the motel room, his teeth gnashing at Dean’s neck and his hand thrust down Dean’s jeans. 

And it wasn’t good. Dean, whose compass always pointed true north toward Sam, who’d traded 40 years in hell for one more with his brother, thought “hey, no,” as Sam stroked him and covered him and bit him. Sam was too rushed, too angry, and Dean might have spent the last two months spoiling for a fight but it turned out he didn’t want to fight something he couldn’t kill. Dean’s traitor dick sat up and begged like a trained dog in Sam’s rough grip anyway, and ok, whatever. A handjob wasn’t exactly a hardship. 

Sam bit and shoved like a monster, his hands and mouth and looming shoulders practically shouting: _Was this how it was with him, was this what you wanted tonight, dammit Dean I’m talking to you_. 

Funny thing was, Sam was wrong about Benny. Pillow talker he wasn’t, but Benny gave as good as he got. Fucking face to face was too exposed—no one took their pants off in monsterland—but Benny’d look him in the eyes before and after, and almost always smile. Sometimes he’d whistle insanely catchy 50s tunes under his breath the whole time, the perverse motherfucker. Dean would have them in his head for days.

Benny always sheathed his teeth unless Dean pushed for them. Sam’s teeth were blunt, he was bruising Dean more than he was cutting him, although Dean felt a trickle of blood crawl across his collarbone. Benny’s had been sweet in their sharpness—nearly painless unless Dean moved. Which he usually did, pushing back into Benny or holding them both in his hand.

Dean came thinking of teeth. Sam backed off almost immediately, his face an unreadable clash of emotion. Maybe he hadn’t expected his caveman routine to work for Dean—it usually didn’t. Sam would come to his own conclusions, add 1 and 1 and get Benny or Cas or however many people Dean had to apologize for caring about. And wasn’t that ironic, given that Dean suspected that maybe all it took was the _dog_ to replace him. The girl was for a future Dean couldn’t help Sam with.

Well, fuck him. Dean knew then and there he was gonna pet and suck Sam like a girl, remind Sam of what he’d lost. Only polite to return the favor.

Dean caught his breath and sank to his knees.

\--

“I mean, it’s cool if you’re tired.” Sam said it fast, backpedalling better than a politician. Dean remained frozen, caught in one of his most obvious tells, but what was he going to fucking say? 

They haven’t, not for a year. 

They kept their distance after that angry night, a couple staying together for the children. Except their children were an unstable prophet, a loony angel, the King of Hell, and a legacy of suffering and sacrifice. 

In the end it had boiled over, like it always did. Sam threw himself on the bomb this time, revealing in the final moments before the bell that he’d been playing for Dean’s team all along. And that, that wasn’t fair—you can’t just admit that how wrong you are and how right Dean is and then clock out before Dean can take it back. That was dirty pool. How could Dean win the argument— _no, I love you more_ \--if Sam wasn't going to fight?

Sam was his to watch, and that was the problem. Dean had mostly just watched while Sam consigned himself to three trials by fire and a last-ditch coma. He couldn’t watch Sam anymore, because he’d be watching him walk into the sunset; best case headed for an eternity of Dean-free reruns of Life’s Greatest Moments, worst case sucked behind the Hell doors Sam had tried to close forever. 

So Dean did what he had to do. Now any anger Dean might have felt was burnt away by the lava flow of guilt hollowing him out.

Most days he managed. He and Zeke had a signal; they checked in regularly. Usually it was during a “catnap” in the Impala, or during one of Sam’s showers. Time that Sam wouldn’t even notice losing. (Dean refused to let Zeke erase any more memories.)

Sam was getting stronger, and that was good, it was. Sam’s health was coming back. But with his health returned his clarity of mind, just when Dean had the most to hide. His humor did too, just when Dean couldn’t think of any jokes. And now…well, they haven’t, not for a year.

“Sorry, man. I’m just beat.”

“Um, OK. Everything seemed kind of low-key today. To me. But it’s cool.” 

It was low-key. They’d been at the bunker for a week, the latest angel skirmish resolved two weeks ago with few casualties. (It was thanks to a spell Zeke had procured. It allowed hosts to hear them. Sam had eloquently convinced the confused people they’d best be served by exercising their right of refusal.) 

Dean let his body speak for him, turning for the door. He was about to throw a casual “g’night” over his shoulder when he felt Sam’s hand on the small of his back. 

Dean flushed white-hot with adrenaline, but he made himself turn around slowly. 

Sam waited until Dean was looking at him, the asshole. 

“Dean,” he said, and his tone added _don’t make me beg, man_. 

And whatever expression Dean had on his face wasn’t clear enough to stop Sam, because he bent forward for a kiss. Dean opened automatically, half stunned. Sam glided forward, catching the side of Dean’s face in a hand and slotting their hips together with the other. Sam was warm, and alive, and healing, and his mouth ate up all Dean’s protests. 

Dean surged forward then, kissing back hard and desperate. Sam read it wrong at first, pushing away to laugh, breathless. Dean’s face must have settled on an expression finally, because Sam sobered, drawing close to Dean again.

Slowly, he tilted Dean’s head to the side, exposing the place where he’d chewed it like an animal a year ago. He kissed it reverently three times— _father, son, holy ghost_ —all while murmuring softly.

Dean heard, “I will make it OK,” and when Sam started to kiss him again, he couldn’t help but believe it.

They haven’t, not for a year. But they spent the night making up for lost time.

\--

“Sorry I almost gave you the brush off last night, Sammy.” 

Sam was always Sammy when Dean was in a good mood, which a morning-after glow generally ensured. Dean wasn’t about to pretend their lives were not a bit perverse.

Sam gave him a Look that was frankly uncalled for. Yeah, they didn’t talk about sex. Ever. But Dean had thought that was oblique enough to pass. It was a compliment; no need for Sam to look so bitchy.

“Dean, you, uh.” Sam paused. Dean would realize later that he was trying to think of a way to say _you shot me down_ without sounding like he’d had his feelings hurt. Of course, later, hurting Sam’s feelings was going to be the least of Dean’s worries. 

“You were tired. I get it,” Sam finished. 

For the moment Dean was playing offense against a straw man. “I didn’t think I came off as ‘tired.’” Dean even began a leer before he understood.

“Whatever,” Sam who-didn’t-get-laid last night said. 

He turned back to his books, coffee, and slightly wounded pride, leaving Dean to have a heart attack in peace. For the moment it hardly mattered whether Ezekiel had duped Dean or erased Sam’s memories after, if an angel was dying to single white female Sam’s life or erasing what he thought of as a sin. All that mattered was that Dean had never, ever fucked up worse than when he stole Sam back from Death for himself. Again. 

They hadn’t, not for a year.


End file.
